Of Burnt Belstaff's, Bad Hair, and Killer Biscuits
by RosieO'Hara
Summary: It's Sherlock's birthday and he is convinced it is the 'worst' one yet. He has had no presents or even wished given to him and it is like everyone has forgotten. It gets worse when he has to go to a Football game, Babysit Lestrade's Evil demons/children, his parents show up, and he has violent issues in the shopping centre and deals with an angry footballer.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a little Plot Bunny I had floating around in my mind that I wrote down on a napkin before it was deleted. I hope you like it. Happy birthday to Sherlock! this should be less than 4 chapters. It may have season 3 spoilers, but really, if you haven't figured these out yet you are probably in the same boat as Anderson. Sorry, that was a bit not... good...-Rosie**

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Sherlock hasn't had a case in eight days. He is bored, to say the least, and John is out of town at a conference with Mary. Mrs. Hudson is on holiday in the South of France, a 'sorry for being dead gift' he mooched off Mycroft and gave to her. Crime seemed to be at a standstill during the post-Christmas season. His skull was confiscated after he set the curtains on fire to see how long it would take for the ashes to fall naturally from the charred fabric.

He slouched in his chair scrolling through e-mails from 'clients'. He had not seen one case that was higher than a four, let alone higher than a seven. To be truthful he would have taken a six if he saw one. Anything to beat the boredom.

Usually he would annoy his brother or begin a new experiment at this time, but Mycroft was not reacting to anything Sherlock did, and there hadn't been any body parts available from the morgue this morning. Molly wasn't there because it was her cousin's wedding this weekend and she had a fitting to attend. He could shoot the wall again, but he didn't feel like breaking John's safe code today.

It was his birthday. He was 33 today. He was used to having no presents or comments about it from anyone but his parents, but usually he got a text or two from people like John, Mycroft, and a few odd 'friends' he had accumulated throughout the years. This year he didn't get any acknowledgement from anyone.

He fidgeted in his chair before going to the kitchen and checking his week old livers that he had soaking in tequila on the crowded counter, no change. He huffed and flopped back on the couch. "BOOORED!" he yelled at no one in particular.

He heard his mobile ring and his spirits lifted a little. The probability of a case made him excessively happy. He dug his mobile out of his trouser's pocket and read the Caller I.D.-Lestrade.

"Sherlock Holmes." he answered.

"Sherlock. We need you. We found a severed foot in the middle of Hyde Park. No body. Will you come?"

To be truthful this wasn't a 7, but he was bored out of his mind. "Fine. I'll be there in ten minutes. Is Anderson there?"

"No, he caught mono." Lestrade says.

"Donovan has it as well then, right?" he says, pulling on his coat and tying his scarf around his neck.

"No she has the flu. It is going around the yard."

"Wrong. She definitely has mono, I know she got her jabs for the flu." Sherlock answered grabbing his keys.

"Just come." Lestrade sighs and hangs up.

Sherlock leaves the flat and hails a cab, "Hyde Park."

The cab stops and Sherlock pays the cabbie before walking towards the crowd of people held back by the tape. Sherlock pulls the tape up and enters the scene to see Lestrade walking towards him.

"Sherlock! The foot was found by a runner this morning. It is most likely male, judging on the size and how it is kept. No one else has found any other parts of the body yet. There was no ID and the foot was not severed here. That is all we have thus far." Lestrade says as they walk toward the foot.

Sherlock mills around it for a few minutes, checks his phone a few times, and then checks the nearest rubbish bin.

"Ok, the foot belongs to a male, around thirty. He is an athlete. The foot is highly callused and has a few blisters indicating a lot of activity and sweating repeatedly for many years. The man has money, lots of it, based on the fact that he gets a pedicure every three weeks at an upscale salon and his shoes are custom made. You are looking at the foot of a football player, indicated by the slight bumps and blisters made from excessive running and stress fractures from kicking something a lot. The foot was left here last night between two or three in the morning and his shoe and sock is in that bin there." Sherlock said, pointing at the bin.

"Do you know the identity?"

"I can narrow it down. The sock is from the Fulham Football Club. Have someone call and see who didn't show up today. Chances are that your foot belongs to them."

Lestrade calls and Sherlock resumes walking around for clues.

"Sherlock. The foot belongs to Brede Hangeland. He didn't show up yesterday and his wife said he hadn't come home. We will head over to his flat and see if we find anything there."

"No need Lestrade. This obviously has to do with someone connected to the team, not his wife. Head over to the stadium first." Sherlock said, tapping away on his phone. "Call me if you need me."

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Home, IF you need me, call me. I've got a liver on my table." Sherlock said, before turning on his heel and hailing a cab. Leaving Lestrade and the rest of Scotland disgusted and confused.

Sherlock got home, checked his liver (no reaction) and pulled up information about the football club.

His phone started to ring fifteen minutes later, "Sherlock."

Lestrade answered, "Sherlock, I need a huge favour! My wife is out of town in Liverpool for some stupid class reunion and my kids were staying with my neighbour, but the plans fell through and I can't leave this case because everyone else is.." Lestrade started.

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Definitely not."

"Sherlock, I need you to do this. You did fine last time you watched them! Strangely enough you are a good care taker of my children."

"Lestrade, last time the brats chopped off half of my hair and then managed to burn a hole in my belstaff. Do I dare mention how they nearly killed me with biscuits. They had pineapple in them. Who puts pineapple in biscuits? I'm allergic to pineapple and your children. No. NO. NO!"

"Sherlock, please. It is either you take them or I have to take off of work and this case gets passed on to some other DI that won't work with you." Lestrade threatened.

Sherlock sighed, he was right. No one else would work with him other than Lestrade and this case was interesting him, slightly.

"Fine. Drop them off at Baker St in fifteen minutes. I won't be happy if they cause any trouble. Tell them that."

He really wished that Mrs. Hudson or someone was in London to take these brats off his hands. John liked children. Molly liked children, but children didn't like Molly, she was too… Molly? Mrs. Hudson bought them off with biscuits and story books. Sherlock despised children, they were messy, unkempt, loud, inquisitive, dirty, and worst of all widely interested in Sherlock. He was told to not show them anything gruesome or dangerous, which takes all the fun out of pretty much everything, and that meant he had to clean and bring anything dangerous into a locked room or throw it in the rubbish.

He cleared the flat of anything a) flammable, b) toxic, c) that stains fabrics, and d) used to be part of a living animal.

He hung his coat and scarf on the back of his door, and waited for the hellions to arrive. Lestrade had three children. Oliver, Ian, and Zara, or was it Cara, Liam, and Guliver? He didn't know. Something along the lines of that. The girl was three and liked to play with his hair and scissors, not a great combination. The younger boy was five or six and likes to run around and jump on everything, including Sherlock. The oldest was about eight and he likes to get into all of Sherlock's work and experiments to see what is going on, he is curious, but doesn't get that he can't touch or see EVERYTHING. Sherlock would gladly show him severed body parts and eyeballs being bisected but Lestrade would kill him.

He heard footfalls coming up the stairs and took a deep breath to prepare himself for the loony-bin.


	2. Chapter 2

"Daddy? Why do we have to stay with him? He isn't any fun and he doesn't let us do ANYTHING?" A young boy's voice whined. There was a knock at the door off 221 B and Sherlock forced himself to open the door.

Lestrade stood in the doorway a bag slung over his shoulder and three children surrounding him. The oldest looked anxious and slightly happy to be there in oppostition to the younger boy whose face was marred by a scowl and had his arms crossed. The girl didn't really care much at all. She held Lestrade's hand and picked at a piece of peeling wall paper to her right.

"Sherlock, thank you for this. I'll be back as soon as possible. Just don't do anything trauma inducing," Lestrade says walking in and setting the bag down in John's chair.

"I will behave if they do."

"Sherlock, I've warned them already. They've brought movies and games to play with each other. All you have to do is make sure they don't burn the flat down or try to kill one another." Lestrade sighs kissing his daughter on the head and walking out the door, "Kids, behave for Sherlock."

The kids made their goodbyes and turned to Sherlock. He sighed and sat down on the couch.

A blur pummeled at him and landed on his lap, knee digging into his groin. His eyes widened and he groaned. "Hi! I'm Zara and I'm four now," the girl said, holding up four fingers, "I like Kitties. Do you like Kitties?"

Sherlock pushed her off his lap and onto the couch, she stuck to his side, brown eyes looking expectantly, "I like to experiment with them."

"What does experinept mean?"

"It means… er, never mind." He says, not wanting to ruin Lestrade's child. "Go play with your brothers. I can almost guarantee that they are more fun than my brother."

"Can we watch Anastasia? I never get to watch that movie because it scares Ian." Her brown eyes pout and he sighs, "Fine. Put it in. I'll be in the kitchen." He says grabbing a file and walking into the temporarily experiment free kitchen.

An hour later the movie was in full swing, complete with childish singing and creepy Rasputin. The boys sat on the floor playing Battleship and munching on a bag of crisps. So far, so good.

Things were going well and they left him alone, well mostly. Zara asked him where the toilet was and Oliver asked him what he was doing a mere twelve times.

His mobile started to ring and he fished it out of his pocket. "Find anything, Lestrade?"

"The team manager seemed a little fishy, but the rest of the team and faculty were surprised, to say the least. The area is clean. We are starting to think that he is already floating down the Thames."

"Was the manager left handed?"

"No." Lestrade drew out. "Why?"

"It is most likely not him we are looking for. The cut looked like it came from a left handed person, but he could have used his non-dominant hand. He might be connected then."

"We'll keep that in mind. How are my children?" Lestrade asked with an edge of hope in his voice.

"Dull. Finish what you must do quickly or I will feel inclined to teach them chemistry. They seem eager to learn." Sherlock said looking around the sitting room.

"Don't you dare. I will personally have your brother seek revenge and upload that video of you from that case in Bristol to the internet." Lestrade warned. That would be rather horrible if he did that. He could deal with the video as the internet can be easily hacked, but Mycroft would never leave him alone.

"Fine. Just hurry up and take your demons back. They are loud and annoying."

"I'm trying! I think DI Phillips is signaling me, I should see what he wants. Goodbye Sherlock," Lestrade says, "and don't kill my children. Their mum would kill me."

Sherlock sets his phone down and slumps into the other room. Zara had fallen asleep in John's chair and the boys had moved onto watching Doctor who from the floor. He slumped down on the couch and went into his mind palace. He wouldn't know much more about the case until the toxicology and lab reports came back. If he wasn't stuck being a nanny to Lestrade's brats that is what he could have been doing.

He deduced that it wasn't a crime of passion but most likely made for financial or professional gain. The foot was severed by a right handed man that was not the least bit squeamish. Hangeland was most likely dead, even though the foot was severed while he was alive. He would have died from blood loss by now if he didn't receive medical help. Chances are the criminals didn't care if he lived or died if they cut his foot off.

He spent the next half hour looking for anyone associated with the league that would benefit from Hangeland's death. Namely teammates, other teams, managers, owners and sponsors were at the top of his list. Whoever did this wanted it to be public and made into another media frenzy. Which led him to think that it was someone that wanted to gain publicity to discredit the team, make a scandal move into the forefront, or boost ticket sales.

His train of thought was interrupted by someone jumping on his chest and driving the air from his lungs. "Hey, Sherlock?" A boy said. Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock?" He heard again. He waved his hand to try to get the boy to leave him alone.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? SHERLOCK?" He heard again, with a flick to his cheeks after each name.

"WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

The boy leaned back a bit, but then bounced on his stomach one more time, not fazed much by his outburst.

"Oliver says that he doesn't feel well and I'm bored. Do you know how to play Cluedo?" Ian said, staring into Sherlock's eyes merely centimetres from his face.

"I'm busy. What's wrong with Oliver?"

"Olly had a bug a few days ago."

Great. Lestrade dropped him off with a sick child on top of everything. People were not his 'forte' and children were most definitely not any place near his comfort zone. Sick children were even worse. They had a habit of sicking up on everything, leaving tissues laying around (if they use them and not their sleeves), moaning about everything, crying and worst of all, they ALWAYS ended up getting him sick no matter if he had all of his jabs and avoided them like the plague.

"Well that's great." Sherlock mumbled.

"No it isn't 'great', Sherlock." Ian sassed.

"I was being sarc… er, not literal." Sherlock said avoiding harder words so he wouldn't have to explain.

"Oh." Ian said, crawling down to sit on his legs. "I'm bored. Can we do an experiment? Last time Olly got to see one."

Sherlock was annoyed. He looked around the room, Zara was still asleep in John's chair and Olly had found a blanket and the union jack pillow and was asleep on the rug. Ian was bouncing again and it was starting to hurt his shins. Good God, what did Lestrade feed this demon, pure sugar?

"Fine, but you must promise to never tell your father. Or mother. Or really anybody else." Sherlock said.

Ian finally jumped off his legs and ruffled his red hair before grabbing Sherlock's hands and trying to pull him off the couch. Sherlock sat up and his back cracked loudly. "Go into the kitchen and wait there. DO NOT touch anything."

Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown and headed to the kitchen. Ian was sitting on the counter swinging his legs against the wooden cupboard doors. Sherlock rummaged around the kitchen grabbing a clean test tube, a Bunsen burner, matches, a white powder in a flask and a bag of gummies that John keeps 'hidden'.

He hands the test tube to Ian, "Put this in the stand on the table."

He measures out a few grams of Potassium Chlorate and dumps it into the tube and lights the Bunsen burner underneath it after making sure Ian is standing on a chair behind him and safely away from the open flame. They wait until the powder turns molten.

"Here." Sherlock said to Ian after handing him a red bear from the bag. "Drop it into the tube and then stand behind me."

He puts the bear into the tube and it falls into the powder and the reaction starts. Sherlock grabs the boy and hoists him onto his shoulder and stands back. The tube is making loud bangs and fizzling. Bright light erupts from the reaction and white smoke fills the tube and overflows in the opposite direction and out the open window of the kitchen.

"COOL! Hey Sherlock, why does it do that?"

Sherlock smiles slightly that society isn't doomed with the upcoming generations, "The heat causes the decomposition of potassium chlorate, that white stuff, which produces potassium chloride and oxygen, which ignites the sweet. The heat continues to decompose the potassium chlorate which feeds the rest of the reaction."

"Can we do another? I like you. You are fun. Daddy would never do this." Ian asks.

Sherlock smiles and ruffles the kid's hair, "I'm busy right now. I can pull some up on my laptop for you to watch if you would leave me be."

"All right." He said a little dejected.

Sherlock set Ian up in the kitchen and went to the sitting room again. Oliver was still on the floor and looking pale. Sherlock stayed away, and went to check on Zara. She had woken and moved to the couch. She had her art set on the first cushion and paper strewn across the room. Sherlock wasn't particularly bothered by this because the flat was usually a mess.

The clock showed that it was nearing dinner time and there was still no update from Lestrade. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and rang the DI.

"Sherlock?"

"You owe me."

"What? Sherlock, what is going on?"

"Oliver is ill and I swear you feel the other one pure sugar." Sherlock seethed.

"What is wrong with Oliver?"

"I don't know. Ian said that he had a cold this week."

"O.K., does he have a fever?" Lestrade inquires.

Sherlock grudgingly walks over to the boy and puts his hand on his brow. It feels hotter than average, but not too hot.

"A slight one. I'm just going to put him in my room and let him sleep until you can pick him up. I do not 'do' ill children."

Lestrade sighs, "Yes, yes. We know you don't do children of any kind. Do some good and check in on him periodically, yeah?"

"Fine." Sherlock says, "Anything new?"

"It seems that he was very well liked. We are looking at the financials right now. I'll be over to rake the kids back in two hours, no more. If they get hungry just order takeout. I'll pay you back."

"Good. Two hours or I am resuming my experiments."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Lestrade says.

Sherlock puts his mobile away and squats down and gathers the boy in his arms. The walk down the hall is as fast as Sherlock can make it in order to avoid catching the boy's cold. His room was clean and neat opposed to the rest of the flat. He kept it that way for when he finished cases and just wanted to crash. He set the boy down on the blue duvet and threw a few blankets over him before leaving his room's door open and going back into the kitchen.

"I've been told to get you something to eat. What do you want?"

There was no answer. He shrugs and walks into the sitting room. "Ian? Zara?" He asks, looking around, he turns around… BANG! Pain spikes through his head and the world fades to black before his body meets the hard floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**So, Happy Valentine's Day! I don't know if I have any Romance in this for anyone, but we can all marvel in Sherlock's strange attractiveness and John's adorableness or even Lestrade's great hair... I wish to thank everyone who has supported this story. You all fuel my writing and for that, I must thank you all! I hope you are liking the story because this was one of those I never expected to be larger than a chapter or two, but it seems to have branched out in my mind palace. OK, I don't have a mind palace, it is more like a mind room, but I am proud of it so far.**

**I want to thank everyone involved with the Sherlock series and remind everyone that, shocker, I don't own anything I write about unless it is an original character. My birthday is coming up so owning that would be a great prezzie, but I will settle for a nice trip to the countryside or even a nice night out with James.**

**XX-Rosie**

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"IAN! This is all your fault! You killed him!" He heard a high pitched voice whisper from nearby.

"No! I just said it would be fun to try. You let go of the wire when he was walking past us! Dad is going to be furious!" Another voice hissed from above.

There was a faint pain creeping in his head that cut through the fog that was housed in his head. He could feel something wet run down his hairline, and he hoped it was sweat or water, just not what he thought it was.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and opened his eyes, regretting the spinning room and screaming children that came with the actions.

"Mr. Sherlock! You're not dead! We are so sorry! Don't tell Dad," Ian said centimetres from his face. The boy's eyes were wide and pleading puppy-dog eyes, "Please?" He added as his sister hid behind him.

Sherlock groaned and made his way over to the couch. He flopped down with a woosh of air and grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his hairline and found a sizable mound growing underneath his stray curls on the right side of his temple. The once white fabric was now stained red from the blood that had oozed from the moderate sized cut.

"Do you need anything?" Zara asked, climbing on his legs.

"Just explain what you were doing."

Ian stepped forwards looking very guilty, "Well, I saw an experiment where you can take a wire or string and pull so it makes objects fly if you let it go, like an arrow, only less dangerous. We took one of those metal cubes on the desk and tried it out, thinking it wouldn't work, and well you called us for dinner. We are afraid you would be angry so we hid, and when you came in the door scared Zara and she let go and that cube hit you."

Sherlock groaned, knowing he couldn't be angry with them for that, "That was very irresponsible of you. I will have to explain to your father, but I will take part of the blame." Sherlock said, placing Zara back on the floor and stumbling into the loo.

He washed his face and dabbed at this temple that now had a blue bruise sprouting outwards from the red gash. He shook his head and pulled out his phone.

"Lestrade, your children are trying to kill me." He stated plainly.

"Sherlock, I am sure my children would not try to kill you. Unless you steal Zara's drawings, but you are also much bigger than her." Lestrade said, annoyed with Sherlock's pestering.

"They made a makeshift bow and hurled a metal Rubik's cube at me."

"Christ. Why on earth would they do that? Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just hurry up before they succeed on my demise. I would love to live long enough to see Anderson get fired for his idiocy."

Lestrade sighed, "I will pick them up as soon as possible or send a babysitter over to make them less 'hostile'. Just don't return them in pieces." Lestrade said, "Listen, Sherlock, I trust you. I'll make up for this. Promise."

"Why do you trust me with children. I really am not suited for this job."

"I know. I must be crazy to leave a genius with my children. A genius who would give his life for his friends. A genius who would kill anyone who even mentions putting them in danger. A genius who is not a sociopath. Hmm, I wonder. I have to leave now. Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked a few times at Lestrade's last statement and forced himself to leave the small room and call the takeout place a few streets over. He got a few orders of different things and hoped that the children liked it. He even thought of egg drop soup for Oliver.

He found the younger two drawing pictures on the floor, still looking guilty. He pulled out his laptop and started his research on the case, insuring that the children couldn't see the gruesome pictures on the screen. No one said anything to the other unless it was to ask for more paper or to pass the pencil.

Dinner passed without much drama. Zara refused to eat unless he did, so to get her to shut up he had a few bites of beef and a small bowl of rice. Lestrade didn't contact him again, meaning they had gotten nowhere, but didn't have enough evidence and information for him to be of any help. He sent Ian to see if Oliver was up and wanted anything to eat around eight, but he was still asleep.

Sherlock checked in on him every hour after that and knew that the fever was still present, but not horrible. The boy slept most of the time or read a book he had found on Sherlock's nightstand about religious practices of the cults of northern Finland. Tissues lay strewn on the floor surrounding the rubbish bin the corner and the glass of water was set half empty on the nightstand.

Sherlock retired back to the couch and closed his eyes, entering his mind palace. The white walls were welcoming to him. He strolled through the halls and into a room, the walls were made of pictures and diagrams. He sat down at the desk there and pulled out a file on the footballer. He read all about the man, his life, what he had deduced, and started on to the other suspects. His eyes strained from the text and he drifted off back into the fog of his brain left from the collision with the cube. His body relaxed and sunk down on the desk of his mind palace as his real body sunk into a quiet sleep filled occasionally with soft snores and twitching as his body shut down into a needed sleep.

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**So that is that! I am hoping for more action and a twist in the next chapter, which may be posted later, but it is really early here and I have to go to work, so that is all for now. Any feedback of any form is welcome, so thank you all for reading. Hope you liked it. -Rosie**


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